


until we reach the border (until we make our plan to run)

by skeleton_twins



Series: scars [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Car Sex, Introspection, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Recovery, Road Trips, or eddie leaves myra for Good, past abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: The future lies ahead—past the exit signs as black tires roll forward, a blur against the pavement and broken yellow lines. It’s a journey on a folded map, connecting lines of blue ink that leaves heavy blots against each city they’ll pass, in time.or Eddie and Richie leaves Derry.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: scars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543531
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	until we reach the border (until we make our plan to run)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really go here anymore but this fic was almost finished and I wanted to get it out of my google docs. Sorry about the abrupt ending. I'm just tired of working on this fic aksdhjfak
> 
> anyways this is a sequel to my other reddie fic, probably won't make a lot of sense unless you read the first part.

There’s no longer blood splattered on his glasses. 

Richie had the lens replaced and fixed after Eddie had yelled at him about blood-borne diseases just like Richie had predicted he would. His face ached from grinning so hard, but he couldn’t stop smiling. Eddie’s brown eyes were almost bulging out of his head, face growing more and more flushed as he ranted about risk statistics, his hands flying everywhere. Stiffly chopping the air. 

Eddie had paused when he noticed Richie’s strange response—wasn’t arguing back for the sake of it, just watching him with utmost fondness. “What the fuck are you staring at, take those disgusting glasses off.”

“No, then I couldn’t get to see your cute angry face.” 

Eddie just sighed, making the decision for Richie and stomping over towards him and sliding the glasses off his nose, murmuring under his breath, “Fucking sap.” 

…

They leave Derry together. Richie drives with one hand on the steering wheel. Eddie shifts uncomfortably in his seat whenever he slips one hand away from the wheel. _It’s not safe. It’s dangerous._ Richie can practically hear Eddie’s voice, the words unsaid, but he doesn’t have to imagine anymore. Eddie’s alive. He can say the words himself.

Although, the words never come. Eddie opens his mouth but closes it slowly, a soft little “Oh…” escaping as soon as Richie’s fingers bump against his, waiting for Eddie to let him in. 

He thinks that this feeling of surprise will leave eventually. That he will get used to Eddie being _right_ there when his head turns, expecting an empty space instead. 

Richie needs the touch. The constant reassurance that Eddie was here with him and this wasn’t some sick trick from It, not Richie caught in the deadlights, a dream waiting to twist into a nightmare—the further they get away from Derry, the more Richie relaxes. Eddie squeezes his hand and his anxiety drains a little bit more. 

Eddie’s alive. He doesn’t need another reminder of the fact, not when he can see Eddie right in his peripheral, right where he belongs—that’s not why he brings Eddie’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. Eddie flushes, his whole face pinkens and it’s a beautiful shade on him. The blush carries downward, all the way to his chest—the sliver of skin that peeks out between unfastened buttons.

There’s a weathered sign right on the outskirts of the town. The paint is cracked and split—peeling. The red paint runs, almost like blood, hard to make out the words: _Leaving Derry_. There’s a hint of fear churning low in Richie’s gut as they cross the borders, that something—It (but _it’s dead._ Pennywise’s gone. But so was Eddie, his mind needlessly reminds him, and Richie ignores the thought) will jump out in front of their car with those crooked eyes, undead with torn flesh, stumbling forward to get them, trying to prevent them from leaving, but it’s a peaceful exit. Richie doesn’t look behind in the rearview mirrors, there’s nothing holding him here anymore. No one. Everything he needs is right beside him, sitting in the passenger seat. 

This time, Richie doesn’t have to leave Eddie behind.

…

Eddie’s distracting—Richie doesn’t want to tear his gaze away from him—but he focuses on the road ahead and sneaks glimpses of him sitting in the passenger seat, frowning down at the map lying in his lap. Sometimes he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is, Eddie catches him staring, turns his attention back to the map, and speaks matter-of-factly. “We’re gonna get in a wreck if you don’t pay attention to the road.” 

Richie flushes and turns away. 

He prefers when Eddie drives, even though it takes some convincing for Richie to let him drive. (“You’re fucking hurt,” he argues, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. He exhales shakily as Richie remembers the weight of Eddie on top of him, bleeding out. The deadlights are still swimming, dull and bleak, in his eyes. “You need to rest.” 

“I’ve _been_ resting. For weeks. In that shitty hospital. C’mon Rich, let me fucking drive.)

It’s easier to let Richie’s gaze linger when Eddie’s behind the wheel. There’s nothing else drawing his attention away, he can stare openly and without distraction. Eddie drives exactly like Richie imagined—full of rage at any other drivers, abides by the laws of the road, drives exactly the speed limit, nothing more or less. He’s wearing one of Richie’s Hawaiian shirts—it’s ugly according to Eddie—with its bright colors and obnoxious pattern, but Eddie doesn’t change into another shirt when Richie points out that he could. Eddie keeps it on. 

Richie snaps pictures of him wearing it as Eddie drives, pictures he can send to the rest of the losers. Their group chat had blown up after Richie sent a picture of Eddie, alive and lying in the hospital bed. All of them had promised to get on the next available flight—but Richie managed to talk them out of it—it wasn’t that he wanted more time with Eddie (none of them should have to live another minute thinking Eddie was dead) but he was a little apprehensive of the thought of them coming back to Derry. That having them all there again would awaken something. He doesn’t want to risk it.

They have plans on meeting up together again—somewhere far, far away from Maine. 

There are some pictures that Richie doesn’t send, that are for Eddie and Richie’s eyes only. Because Richie’s still afraid he’s gonna forget even though they crossed state lines. He needs to remember everything. He doesn’t want to forget the way Eddie looks, especially like this. The pictures are a little blurry from Richie’s shaking hands, pictures of them fumbling in the backseat, of Eddie’s flushed face, pulled off the side of the road, much too impatient to wait until they reach a hotel. 

The car shakes with their movement—making it obvious as to what they’re doing to any other drivers who might pass—rocking side-to-side as Richie’s sweat-slicked hands seize Eddie’s hips. But it’s late—the traffic is minimal at this time of night and the windows are foggy from their harsh panting, shaky exhales mingling together. 

They make new memories that night to replace the ones that still aches like an open wound—where Richie won’t freeze with panic, won’t remember Eddie’s warm blood splattering against his face, the metallic taste hitting his lips, when Eddie settles in Richie’s lap. It’s frantic, desperation pouring from them both as Eddie’s mouth falls open and his hips roll in one continuous fluid movement. Eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks dusted pink. 

Richie reaches up, sweaty palms gliding up Eddie’s damp skin until he’s cupping Eddie’s jaw with one big hand, thumbing at the corner of his mouth. Headlights cut through the darkness, shining through the fog-coated windows and illuminating half of Eddie’s face, and Richie can see his red, shiny lips. 

Eddie purses his lips, kissing the salty pad of Richie’s thumb. It’s almost a delicate kiss to the pale raised skin as if Eddie’s trying to be careful even though the scar has long since healed. The air catches mid-way in Richie’s throat as Eddie’s pink, wet tongue slips out, licking along the underside of his thumb before he takes it entirely into his mouth. His lips a tight seal around the digit as he sucks. 

It doesn’t take long for Richie to cry out—spilling inside Eddie. His hips jerk upward, bucking erratically, as his orgasm crashes over him. His fist curls around Eddie’s leaking, heavy cock, pumping it quickly until Eddie’s streaking his belly with long pearly-white ropes of come. 

There are conversations waiting for them, Richie knows this. Unanswered questions—ones that have been on the tip of Eddie’s tongue since Richie found him in the hospital, that Eddie won’t remember having until the morning. But for now, the questions are forgotten. They’re sated, limbs tangled together as they embrace each other, drifting asleep in the backseat of the car.

When dawn arrives, Eddie will remember his curiosity. He’ll open his mouth to ask the questions Richie dreads, explanations that Eddie deserves to hear. Eddie blinks awake as sunbeams filter through the windows, casting them in the yellow morning light. His fingers twitch in Richie’s hand, fingertips rubbing the thin scar along Richie’s thumb. Richie knows it’s coming and he’s not ready quite yet.

In the end, Eddie’s mouth falls open, his jaw slackens, but no questions follow, only a quiet, sleepy moan as Richie takes him into his mouth. 

  
…

They go to New York first—it’s not home for Eddie anymore, nothing there for him except the few belongings he hadn’t packed with him and took to Derry and a confrontation he doesn’t want to face. Eddie waits in the car while Richie goes inside instead (just like he used to when they were young. When Eddie knew what walking back inside meant—that his mother would spin her web of lies: _“Eddie you’re sick, you shouldn’t go outside. Stay with me. Inside, you’ll be safe.”_ and convince him to stay.) 

He’s stronger now that he remembers that he could be—that he was once before, they both know this. Richie tells him he’s brave for even coming back in the first place, that if it was Richie in his shoes, he would’ve left everything behind. The door of the house is wide open and Eddie can hear Myra’s voice shouting at Richie and it sounds sickeningly like his mother. He rubs his hand over his eyes and wishes that Beverly was here. She would know what to say, she _understands_. The cries grow louder as Richie steps out onto the porch and Eddie knows that Myra follows him out, can hear his name being wailed, but he doesn’t look. He squeezes his eyes shut and reminds himself that it’s not his mother’s voice pleading for him. 

Richie silently hands over a letter once he slips into the driver’s seat, tucks the bag with the rest of Eddie’s items behind the car seat, and drives, face pale like he’s seen a ghost, gripping the steering wheel so tight so his hands don’t shake.

He doesn’t ask what’s in the letter, but Richie suspects it’s something wise because Stan wrote it and he always was wise beyond his years. Stan was the person to confide in. Richie hadn’t spilled his secret to Stanley, but he wished he had—it wasn’t filthy no matter what Pennywise had said—Stan would’ve taken Richie’s confusion and untangled it, assuring Richie that his love for Eddie, his desires weren’t dirty, but something beautiful. Maybe Stan had known all along though. Richie knows there’s an unopened envelope in his mailbox waiting for him back in California, where they’re heading. 

The future lies ahead—past the exit signs as black tires roll forward, a blur against the pavement and broken yellow lines. It’s a journey on a folded map, connecting lines of blue ink that leaves heavy blots against each city they’ll pass, in time.

…

The morning light hits their bare skin, ricocheting through the glass and scatters off the hardwood floors. It’s a golden warmth that washes over them in strips and patches, highlighting the bundle of freckles along Eddie’s shoulder blade. There are infinite patterns that Richie could trace with his fingertips, connecting the brown little dots each morning until they’re both wrinkled and grey—he knows that he’ll never run out of ways of touching Eddie. 

Their legs are tangled together just like before, just like always, in their bed at home instead of a slightly swaying hammock. They had made it to California after a few mishaps: a broken down vehicle and Eddie complaining about the state of Richie’s car. 

“This car’s a fucking joke,” Eddie repeats for the eighth time. He has his head ducked under the hood, looking for something. Richie doesn’t exactly know what, he’s a bit clueless about these things. 

“I don’t think it was made for a cross-country road trip, Eds.” 

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Why the fuck did you bought a car for you can’t work on?” Eddie grunts out. Richie almost doesn’t hear the question. He’s too distracted by the way Eddie had pushed up his sleeves to his elbow, fingertips stained with oil and grease. It’s a good look on him. 

Eddie had managed to fix the car, thankfully, but not before Richie had him pinned against the side of the car, both of their trousers around their ankles, with Eddie’s legs wrapped around his hips, panting and face flushed and bright. His fingertips leave grease smudges on Richie’s pale skin. 

Mornings in California start the same each day: sunlight pours in, they slowly blink awake, curled around each other. It didn’t take long for Richie to adjust to the heat of sharing his bed with another, couldn’t imagine returning to an empty, cold one. Eddie fits against him perfectly, pressed tight against Richie’s chest, knees bent, and almost touching his chin. It’s endearing, the way Eddie sleeps—either curled up into himself or clinging to Richie. 

When they fall asleep together, Richie keeps his arms tight around Eddie’s waist, holding him close so he doesn’t forget, and doesn’t get lost in the glare of the deadlights that linger in his dreams. It slackens throughout the night after Richie drifts asleep. 

Eddie doesn’t mind waking to the weight of Richie’s fingertips, how they will skirt across his chest, seeking out the thick scar along his sternum. Richie touches because it reminds him that the gaping hole is shut, that Eddie is here with him, that he isn’t still floating in some dark cistern, caught in deadlights. 

He traces the raised skin, feeling the bumpy scar tissue underneath. Eventually, as Eddie becomes more awake, his fingers find Richie’s, covering Richie’s hand and keeping it trapped against Eddie’s warm chest. 

Richie wiggles his fingers underneath Eddie’s hand, but the weight of it is too heavy to actually move much.

“Are you ever going to tell me how you got this?” Eddie whispers the question. 

Richie had been too distracted by his own thoughts to realize Eddie’s hand had shifted, fingertips grazing over the scar on Richie’s thumb. It’s not the question Eddie wants to ask, nor is the one that has been on the tip of his tongue for months now, burning and stewing, but Richie knows what this line of questioning will eventually lead to. 

“I cut it by accident when I—I was recarving our initials on the kissing bridge.”

It’s not what Eddie’s expecting to hear. The silence is brief. “Wait, the kissing bridge? Are you serious? Richie, you carved our initials there?” 

Richie laughs, “Yeah, I’ve been in love with you for my entire life, Eds. Of course, I did.” 

“Why the fuck did you never tell me?” 

Richie swallows thickly. “I thought you were dead.” 

The silence lasts longer this time, heavy as they both take in the weight of Richie’s words. He waits for the inevitable. Eddie will stir in his arms, pull away, and ask the question that Richie never had an answer to. 

Eddie doesn’t move away, he stays there in Richie’s arms. Fingers still moving, still tracing over the scar on Richie’s thumb. But he still asks, “How did you find me, Richie? 

“Oh, it was easy.” Richie lies because a joke is always waiting, ready to go, in the back of his throat. It’s easier to hear a laugh than the bitter disappointment after speaking the ugly truth. “Just followed the sounds of your voice. Could hear you ranting about MRSA from the other side of Derry.” 

“MRSA _is_ serious. Do you even know what it is?! Do you have a fucking clue how common it is in hospitals?” 

“No fucking idea, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Eddie shakes his head, a tiny little movement, so minute that Richie probably wouldn’t have noticed except for Eddie’s dark hair tickling his nose. “Fuck off, I’m not going to tell you about MRSA. Stop distracting me.” 

Richie could think of better distractions. He opens his mouth to say just that, but Eddie cuts him off. “Richie, please.”

He doesn’t think he could deny Eddie anything, even if he never says please. His head rolls forward, presses his forehead against the nape of Eddie’s neck. There’s a scar between Eddie’s shoulder blades that matches perfectly to the one on his chest. 

It’s easier to admit the truth when he’s not facing Eds. He stares at the long scar instead and thinks of putting his lips on it. “I went back to the Neibolt house.” 

He speaks the words softly after one long shaky exhale. Breathes the quiet admission against Eddie’s scarred skin, barely just above a whisper, but it’s loud enough for Eddie to hear.

“Why would you go back there?” Eddie asks, even though Richie suspects that he knows the answer, that he had already guessed it the moment the words left Richie’s mouth.

Denial is an old stranger. One that Richie doesn’t want to be re-acquainted with. So he doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t stifle any urges. He tilts his head up, where his lips grazed over Eddie’s skin. He presses breathy open-mouthed kisses along the scar as he speaks. 

“I wanted to be with you.” 

The implication of the confession lingers, solemn, in the air between them. Richie ignores it, at least tries to, but his mouth catches on nothing, his kisses stuttering to a halt. His lips are still connected to Eddie’s skin, only barely touching. 

“Richie…” Eddie breathes out his name, heavy with sadness as Richie finally drags his mouth away from Eddie’s skin. 

He thinks of ways to soften the blow, lies that could spill from his tongue to make light of the truth, the ones he would recite to crowds, to the rest of the Losers, but this was different—this was Eddie. He didn’t need to perform, not around him.

It takes a few tries to get the words unstuck, to untangle his vocal cords, and speak, but Richie swallows any lingering fear down. 

“It would’ve been easier if I hadn’t remembered you. I think it’s the only way I managed to spend most of my life without you, Eds. But I remember you and I–I couldn’t spend the rest of my life without you.” 

Eddie’s fingers squeeze–tightens his hold on Richie’s hand, and Richie doesn’t know if it’s an act of reassurance or merely muscular reflex. His voice sounds hoarse when Eddie finally speaks, saying nothing more but a plea. “Stay with me, please. Just…Stay with me, Richie.” 

He knows Eddie’s asking for more–asking Richie not to leave him the same way Stan left Patty, left them all. 

“I wouldn’t.”

It’s all the words Richie is able to get out. He means to say so much more: _I wouldn’t do that to you. My whole world is right here in my arms, why would I leave. I just got you back, I’m not ready to leave you again. I’m finally not alone anymore._

The answer seems to be enough for Eddie as he relaxes in his arms as Richie kisses between his shoulders, lips connecting right against the middle of the thick scar, a line separating Eddie’s shoulder blades. 

“I love you.” 

The words hit differently every time Eddie utters them. Always leaving him breathless. Sometimes Richie thinks it might not be real. That Eddie speaks them too easily, that maybe he’s dreaming, that he fell in love with a ghost. If he opens his eyes, Eddie won’t be lying in his arms here, but back in Derry, at the Neibolt house. Maybe Richie’s there too. He doesn’t think he’d mind if it’s true. They would be together and that’s enough. It always has been.

But there’s a heat between their bodies, warmth trapping them under the blanket, and from the sun that peeks through the glass windows. There’s a heartbeat softly thumping against his palm as his hand still rests against Eddie’s scarred chest, lying under his fingertips. 

All evidence that points to something more than an illusion–it proves they’re alive. That together, their scars have finally healed. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song run by daughter


End file.
